Blanket
by swishandflickwit
Summary: "I'm cold, that's the problem isn't it?" She yells as she grabs several towels and throws it down the length of the hallway they're on. "I'm cold, I'm always so cold." Bestfriends/Roommates AU based on the tumblr prompt: "can i borrow your blanket? i need to cry." from tumblr user surprisingly-alive-redshirt.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: Fair warning - Emma _does_ purposefully hurt herself in this fic, though not so much and so graphically. I just wanted to warn anyone in case it might be triggering. Stay safe, guys!**

* * *

There's a banging on the door that startles him to wakefulness and has him grabbing the baseball bat he keeps underneath his bed for situations such as this.

It's only as he trips over his sheets trying to get off his bed that he realizes three things: 1) the banging is coming from his _bedroom_ door, not the front, 2) he recognizes the voice hollering frantically through the wood and 3) there's only one other person who has accesss to the keys of this apartment.

"Emma?" He calls out unnecessarily from his place behind the closed door.

"Open the damn door, Killian!" His roommate (for two years now) and best friend (for a decade, since college), replies.

He does so at the urgency in her voice and nearly stumbles when she barges in and throws open his wardrobe.

"Emma?" He says so again and with caution, concern coursing through him when he realizes that it is nearly 3AM and that she wasn't even supposed to be home till two days from now, only just left to visit Walsh on an early morning flight to Boston _yesterday_.

"Where are the blankets?"

She'd begun tossing the boxes of seasonal clothes he keeps on the top shelf before she gives him a chance to answer.

"Whoa, Emma, _wait_ –"

She doesn't seem to hear him, instead, moving on to the drawers of his dresser and tearing into its contents like a woman possessed.

He hasn't left his spot by the door, feels frozen to the ground upon which he stands on because in the ten years that they've known each other he's never seen her act like _this_ – frenzied, unhinged, _panicked_ and... And it _scares_ him _._

Because he's seen many facets of Emma Swan – her anger, her caution, her mistrust – the aspects that she often allows the outside world to see. But he's also been privileged enough to see the softer side of her, has borne witness to her sadness, her honesty, her vulnerability and – on the best days – her affections, no matter how small they are (after all, he'd do anything for that laugh or her smile).

He's even seen her panicked but not like this, never like this. She's always been the better of the two of them when it comes to putting on a face for the world (they both decided long ago that life was hard so they had to be harder, she's just better at remembering than him, too quick to put it all on the line, he is). He's used to her reticence cause even when she's being open with him, there's still a certain wariness to her eyes, like she's waiting for him to up and leave in the middle of every conversation, even after all these years.

(The thought of him _wanting_ to leave her makes him scoff – nothing short of her telling him to go will ever make him desert her and even then he'd go kicking and screaming)

("A man unwilling to fight for what he wants," his late brother always used to tell him, "deserves what he gets.")

"Where are the _fucking. blankets_. Killian?" She's shouting now but even with the meager moonlight filtering through the lone window in his room, he can see her hands shake and that, more than anything, gets him into motion. He abandons his post by the door and in three long strides he's holding her by the shoulder and getting her to turn and face him.

" _Emma_ , what's wrong?" he cups her cheek but immediately withdraws when he feels her skin is ice cold. " _Fuck_ , you're freezing, love!"

She shrugs the hand that was still on her shoulder and side steps him so she can walk out of his bedroom and into the bathroom they share, directly across his space.

"I know! Don't you think I know that?" She wrenches open the doors on the cabinet directly next to the bathroom though with little effort, as it seems she'd already done so before going to him. But it doesn't stop her from ransacking the towels and the linens from the shelves in the same manner she'd treated his possessions.

"I'm cold, that's the problem isn't it?" She yells as she grabs several towels and throws it down the length of the hallway they're on. "I'm cold, I'm always so _cold_."

She reaches for a flat sheet next and tries to tear at it but when she's unable to, she drops it and starts tugging at the ends of her hair.

"I need the blankets, Killian," she nearly growls as she continues to angrily tear at her hair, "cause I'm-I'm... I'm _tired_ and freezing and I just want the blankets so I can cry and rest and, and-"

She lets out a half-shout, half-groan and she's scratching painfully at her scalp and he's _scared_ , god help him but he's terrified and he has a feeling she means more than just temperature when she referred to herself as cold.

She's still scratching at her scalp, the sound, accompanied with her labored breathing, seems amplified in their too quiet apartment so he shakes the fear from his bones and captures her hands with his own.

Her reaction is instantaneous though and she thrashes away from him but he's having none of it.

"Emma," he pants, stumbling when she pushes extra hard at his chest, "Emma, _stop_."

"Don't touch me!" She screams. He's got his arms around her now and she's hitting his chest in earnest and it hurts, yeah, Emma's a bail bondsperson after all, she takes people - _men_ \- down twice her size on a daily basis. But he'll endure this physical hurt if it meant absorbing all of Emma's hurt.

"Let me go, _let me go_!" But she seems to realize that he has no intention of doing so and has gone limp in his arms, curling into herself as she slumps to the ground. And because he's wrapped himself around her, he has no choice but to follow her down.

"Everyone I touch... Everyone I _care_ about..." She's moved on from shredding her scalp to balling her hands into fists and hitting her head.

"Emma!" He cries and _fuck he's so scared._ Tears unbidden spring to his eyes because for once in his life, he doesn't know what to do. Often, Emma has teased him for being the guy with contingency plan after contingency plan.

("You're so anal," she'd mock.

"You say that now," he returns, "but we'll see who's laughing when you go looking for fleece blankets in the dead, cold winter but find none because _someone_ likes to use all her blankets at the same time."

She says nothing, only throws whatever snack she's eating at him because she knows he won't be able to resist cleaning it up.

Also taking advantage of the fact that he'll take note of that same snack and go out to restock on it just cause he doesn't like when the pantry has gaps where the food should be.)

(He wishes for even just _half_ the levity of that moment then, to give him strength now.)

Nothing could have prepared him for the sight of Emma hurting herself, though.

He holds her back, aware that he has her wrists in a vice grip, strong enough to leave marks, but only because she's _fighting_ him so hard.

"Please, love," he pleads brokenly, "please, you need to stop hurting yourself."

It's like she doesn't hear him. Just mutters, "It's my fault. It's me. It's always _me_."

He lets go of her arms then, instead cups her face in his hands, protects her head from her own assaults – protects her from herself.

"Emma darling, look at me. Whatever happened, I can assure you," and here his voice cracks with the strain of trying to hold back just how fearful he is right now, "it _wasn't_ your fault."

And he's doing a poor job of hiding his worry but for once he's glad. For the first time that night, she looks him in the eye and he nearly staggers at the pain he sees there – raw and open and pouring out of her in droves, manifesting itself in the way her eyes glisten with tears she refuses to shed in front of anyone.

Then, she stills.

"You need to go."

" _No_." If anything, her statement makes him hold on to her tighter.

"It's me," she repeats. "Everyone I've ever been with..."

And she doesn't need to finish cause he knows how it ends.

How everyone _leaves_.

And again, it _hurts_ that this is how she sees herself – and that it seems to have reached this extent that she's willing to... to hurt herself.

She seems to think it's her fault when he feels the blame should be put on him and to every person before him who allowed Emma Swan to build walls so high even she couldn't climb out of them if she wanted to.

"I just want my blankets."

And the sudden reroute in conversation throws him, but then she's completely calm now. If it wasn't for the way she digs her nails into the skin of his arms, he could forget that mere moments ago she had barged into his room in the middle of the night and ransacked the space they both live in.

"I took them to the cleaners to be washed, love. I'm sorry."

Her nails dig in harder, leaving their crescent-shaped marks, and he tenses – afraid that she will revert to her self-harming ways so he says, "Take mine."

He doesn't even wait for her reply, just gets up and grabs the first fleece blanket of his that he sees from their wrecked towel/linen cabinet before kneeling before Emma once more and wrapping it around her.

She eyes the blanket in question and the silence makes the tears come in earnest now and he's crying because he's just so fucking _scared_ and he has no clue what to do, can't read Emma when he can normally read her so well. He gathers something has happened with Walsh but he doesn't know _what_ and so he doesn't know the proper response, doesn't know how _Emma_ will respond next.

He's Killian Jones - the man with the plan as Emma calls him.

Right now he's just Killian Jones - terrified for his best friend and so, so _lost_.

"I'll hurt you," she whispers as she regards him slowly.

 _You're already hurting me_ , he wants to say, _every time_ you _get hurt_.

Instead, he simply says, "Not possible." Then gives her a watery smile and cups her cheek because there's no way he can convince her of that further more, not in the state that they're both in - him with red-rimmed eyes and wet cheeks, her a pale and shaking mess in _near_ tears.

"I'm so _tired._ "

He also gathers she means more than just needing sleep when she says so, which is why it's easy for him to say, "So let me take you to bed."

And without waiting for her answer, he scoops her into his arms, grateful when she doesn't resist but rather, sinks into him as she grips the fabric of his shirt like she needs something to ground herself.

As he deposits her onto her bed, she releases her hold on him like he's burned her when it feels like the other way around when she does that. She curls into a ball and buries her face into the blanket and when her shoulders begin to shake, he gathers that she's finally allowed those tears to fall.

It makes him cry harder – not in heaving sobs but the tears course silently down his cheeks in streams anyway because he _knows_ Emma, knows how careful she is about who she shows her emotions to. This is the woman he's never known to cry in front of an audience even if it is _just_ him. So to see her now, as vulnerable as she's ever been in the ten years he's known her – he's valued every time Emma has revealed a piece of herself to him but this is a side to her that he wishes never came about because it never should have reached this level in the first place.

"You need to leave," she starts in between sobs, "I've lost everyone I've ever cared about because of me, always, always me.

"I can't lose you too,"

she reveals and judging by the way the volume of her sobs increase, it pains her to do so.

And he wants to ask why she'd ever think that but perhaps he's been silent too long cause then she cries harder and her hands begin to quiver, begin to make its way along the length of her arm where she pinches the skin _hard_ andthen _he's_ shaking and it's clear–

"I want to stay. _Here_ ," he begs as he stops her hands from their path, " _let me_ _stay_."

She doesn't reply and his pulse jumps into frightening heights when she pulls away from him but then she rolls to the other side of the bed –

– leaves a space on her bed for him.

And slowly, he climbs in.

First, he leaves a respectable distance between them because after all, her back is still to him and her shoulders are hunched away from him.

But the trembles that wrack her body travel through the little space between them and straight into his bones and suddenly, distance is no longer an option.

He wraps himself around her. It doesn't calm her like he wishes it would – makes her body go even more rigid but still, he holds her.

As she remains unyielding.

As she bawls.

As she gradually softens.

As her tears lessen.

As her breathing evens.

He holds her through it all and between them, they could have filled a river with their tears.

And still, it wouldn't have stopped him from holding her, from gathering the pain in her heart and the ache in her bones to be transferred to him if it was possible.

But it's not and so he tries to match his heartbeat to hers instead.

He succeeds and with only the night to hear his shattered supplication, he reveals a part of himself too.

"You won't lose me, Swan," he sighs against her ear, upsetting the tendrils that lovingly curl itself around there. "You'll never lose me," and before sleep claims him, he breathes one final avow:

"Because I am in love with you, and I hope to protect your heart as you've saved mine."

And if it weren't for the fatigue that had wrapped itself around his person, he would have noticed how the wisps of hair around Emma's ears flow with the movement of her head.

How her hands move from their original place beneath her head, to wrap around his hand at her stomach.

How their fingers intertwine.

* * *

 **AN: Been suffering from the most horrendous writer's block so, this is me trying to overcome it. By starting an angsty multichap.**

 **Yup.**

 **Hope you stick around!**


	2. Chapter 2

He wakes slowly.

Sunlight filters in through the window, bathing him in light and searing his closed eyelids red, which confuses him because the last time he checked, _he didn't have windows in his bedroom_.

And much like the way he wakes, the memories from the night before come to him sluggishly too – bits and pieces flash before his mind till it settles on his last recollection.

Falling asleep with Emma in his arms.

 _Emma_.

Her name rings in his ears like a beacon calling him to consciousness and his hands scramble for her form when he finds his arms bare and her side of the bed cold.

He sits up in bed in a panic, voice garbled when he manages to rasp, "Emma?"

"Hey."

Relief floods through him at the sound of her voice and he turns towards it, towards _her_ where she sits upon the armchair situated by her window.

All the air leaves him because he's relieved, yes. But it's also just _Emma_ and the way the sunshine covers her form, makes her eyes glimmer and her hair shine like it's a halo wrapped around her, as if the light can't help but feel drawn to her.

He feels the same.

( _Waxing poetic first thing in the day, huh, Jones?_ He shakes his head. He can't help it, not when it comes to _her._ )

He eases himself down into the mattress, covers his face with his hands and takes deep breaths, for just a moment, to calm his racing heart and the way it seems to want to fly out of his chest and right into her palms.

(Tries not to think too hard about how it's already there to begin with.)

The bed dips with Emma's weight as she sits, cross-legged, by his hip. He lowers both his hands, places one flat upon the bed while he brings the other to her knee.

"Morning, beautiful," he murmurs softly and with not a hint of innuendo or playful banter, purely because it's true and she _is_.

She smiles, equally gentle.

He smiles back genuinely because, in all honestly, he expected her to be gone by morning, not to be seen till later that night when she's had ample time to process and shove the memory, no doubt, far from the forefront of her mind. Emma has always needed space after emotionally charged encounters, to piece her walls together again and add another layer to boot if only to reinforce them.

And he's always let her do that, grateful at all to have dug a chunk in her wall in the first place for a glimpse of her heart (which he knows even better than his own) and so is content to let her retreat because he's got a piece of her with him. But last night was _different_ , Emma's walls weren't just down, they were crumbled and she was crushed and pained and _hurting_ –

–and he needs to calm down, he needs to get his head straight because last night needs to be addressed but without making Emma shut down.

He rubs his thumb against the skin uncovered by her tights in a reassuring motion, not wanting to scare her when he asks, "So, about last night–"

"You wanna go somewhere?"

It doesn't escape him, how she's quick to interrupt and eager to evade.

Then again, he looks at her, _truly_ looks at her and she seems tired, if the sag in her shoulders and the shadows under her eyes are any indication.

And she could have made her getaway the moment she woke up, or during the middle of the night – she's resourceful like that.

Except that she didn't. She waited for him to rouse from slumber and now she's here, looking him in the eye despite what transpired last night.

She's calm and she's _present_ so maybe, _maybe_ …

"What, like, alone?" He retorts teasingly.

She rolls her eyes but otherwise, says seriously, "No. With me."

They need to talk about what happened, of course. And she's so still, so quiet and that needs to be addressed too.

But she's _here_ and she's not running away, wants to go someplace _with_ him.

And the answer is glaringly simple.

"Yeah."

* * *

 _Somewhere_ turns out to be lunch in their favorite diner, Granny's.

(They slept through the entire morning. Rather, _he_ slept through the morning because when he passed the hall, all evidence of Emma's devastation was tidied, unmistakably by her, and it disturbed him a bit, how like nothing happened at all.)

(He can't forget, is the thing, and a clean loft doesn't deviate from that.)

They both order a stack of pancakes then a vanilla milkshake and a chocolate milkshake because Emma couldn't decide between the two and so he told her to order both and they could share.

Ruby gives them teasing grins when she comes to serve their meals and can't help herself when she asks playfully, "Awfully serious over here. You two on a date?"

Killian gives her a pointed glare and barely resists making an 'abort, abort!' gesture because this is the _worst_ possible time to be mentioning words like 'dating' when Emma's just come home in near-catastrophic proportions from her trip visiting her (current? Previous? Asshole?) boyfriend.

He's about to bring a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose in frustration, thinking this is the moment Emma will shut down and retreat or make a sarcastic comment about how they're _never_ going to happen, at the very least.

He stops himself when Emma lets out a tiny giggle, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips and he stares at her in confusion and wonder because, and he's not being self-deprecating or anything, Emma _is_ usually quick to shut down the notion of the two of them together romantically when people make such assumptions.

(There is something to be said, that people always assume they're together that she even _has_ a usual reaction to that.)

(But he doesn't say it.)

This time though, Emma blushes and merely thanks Ruby for bringing over their milkshakes before proceeding to eat.

He stares, dumbfounded at her, for a few more beats and nearly pinches his arm to check if he's awake at all.

Because, surely, he must be dreaming, for isn't it only in his dreams that Emma smiles earnestly at him as she offers to share her milkshake and shyly asks if she could sip some of his, flushing prettily as she does so?

That she insists on paying the bill because she was the one to take him there?

And that she hadn't denied it when Ruby asked if they were on a date?

* * *

He thinks that after Granny's is when she will begin to shut down. Perhaps, now that she's more awake, she'll realize his intentions and turn him away.

He's starting to wonder if he ever knew her at all because she does none of that, merely smiles that mysterious smile that keeps popping up and asks him to accompany her to Central Park when he begins to bring up the topic of last night.

And because he's putty when she looks at him like that, open and genuine, he nods and follows her lead.

They don't really say anything as the walk along the paths of the park. It's beautiful in the fall with the way the leaves blanket the earth in shades of oranges, yellows and red but none compare to the way Emma glows pink from the cold and how the beanie shaping her head makes her look so young and innocent and free from the burdens of her soul.

He'd have her like this for always, if he could, because she deserves better than a life that did nothing but take from her.

But then again, it's what shaped her into the strong and capable woman she is today and she is, she's _so_ capable, not just of surviving but of the love she so often denies for herself.

Their shoulders brush and their hands graze and were it a true date, he would take this opportunity to intertwine their fingers.

The opportunity passes, for _him_ at least, because Emma beats him to it – lets their knuckles linger a few more moments before turning their palms towards each other and lacing their fingers together.

He tries not to react.

He fails.

Because his palms start to sweat (the gloves don't help his case) and his hold on her is tight, like he doesn't want her to ever let go (he doesn't), and his heart rate accelerates (which she'll probably feel with their hands so closely entwined).

Emma doesn't seem to mind, especially when she tugs him towards an empty bench near the water and he feels his heart ease at the sight of it.

They both breathe identical sighs of relief when they sit and they look at each other, before bursting into laughter.

Their hands are still joined and their foreheads are almost touching once they've calmed down and he hates to dash the easy way the smile comes to Emma's lips despite what happened. But he fears the worse if he lets things remain unspoken for too long, couldn't bear it if something like _that_ happened again, what more, Emma?

And he can feel himself shattering when he starts, "Emma, love–"

She sighs. She knows exactly where his conversation is leading and her shoulders hunch as she lets out a shuddering breath.

"I know you want to talk about last night."

"Aye, love, I do."

"And we will," she reassures, her free hand coming up to run soothingly down the length of his cheek, till her fingers are splayed across it and her thumb rests on his chin, right beneath his bottom lip.

He feels himself tremble with the tenderness Emma's touching him and gazing at him and it's everything he's ever wanted but it feels wrong too, it feels shrouded in shadows in the wake of how he can't forget the way Emma ran about their apartment hysterically or the way she balled her fists and tried to, to…

Her thumb brushes his bottom lip as she worries her own by biting on it.

"Hey, where'd you go?"

"Nowhere, love, I'm right here."

He shakes the vestiges of the image away, covers her hand with his and gives it a squeeze.

"Yeah. Yeah you are."

She smiles and there's so much affection there and he could kiss her, he could kiss her and taste what that affection might feel like on his tongue.

"You're my best friend."

The reminder is both a cold wake up call and a warm asseveration (any position is better than none in Emma's life. He's just so grateful she chose to view him in such high esteem).

"I was wondering if just for today, we could pretend."

"Pretend?" Pretend _what?_ he wonders in bafflement.

"To be something more," she admits and he feels floored.

"Emma," he whispers because this is wrong, he knows this is. No matter what happened last night, for all intents and purposes, she has a _boyfriend_ and it feels all too much like he's taking advantage of her even if she's asking and he thinks, no he's _certain_ , he'll say yes because he's weak like that.

"This isn't fair, I get that. But I _need_ to know something and I–" her eyes and her smile are watery but so, _so_ bright, "I trust you not to break me. I trust _you_."

So. fucking. _weak_.

So he presses a kiss to her forehead before resting his own against hers.

"Okay," he breathes. "Okay."

And she nods as she releases a puff of relieved air, like she was afraid he'd turn her down, like he could _ever_ turn her down.

She raises his arm with the hand holding his and brings it over her head so that she's tucked into him without having to let go. She fits herself under his chin and he sighs contentedly, even with the worry and the expiration ( _just for today,_ he reminds himself) creeping into the corners of his mind, because this is everything he's ever wanted with Emma but was too cautious, for him and for her, to ever hope for it and now he's _here_ and she's here and she _trusts him not to break her_.

"Read to me?" she requests, her breath ghosting along the skin of his neck, bringing a flush to his cheeks.

And from his satchel–

("I love your man purse," she'd tease.

He'd sigh exasperatedly. "It's a _satchel_ , Swan."

"It's a _man purse_ , Jones."

But he wears it proudly all the same, if it means getting to see the poorly hidden admiration in Emma's eyes.)

–he produces The Princess Bride, as per her entreat to bring it before their sojourn to Granny's. He cracks the book open with his free hand and it's slow going but he doesn't want to let go, gets the feeling she doesn't either.

"As you wish."

* * *

He reads till it's too dark to see, till the cold seeps in through their clothes and the hunger for food is too evident to avoid.

They have a dinner of hotdogs and bearclaws from the stall a block from their complex, letting go just long enough to pay for their food and get it situated in one hand, before they're finding each other again, huddling together and lessening the space between them.

When they reach home, releasing the clasp of their hands to shed coats and hats and gloves as they enter, there's a moment of silence before she comments, "It's cold."

"Aye, winter is coming," he jokes and she rolls her eyes but again, uncharacteristically passes up the opportunity to mock him back.

"My blankets are still in the wash, right?" is what she says instead.

He nods, regretfully and she must notice because she steps closer to him and cups his cheek. She's been doing that a lot today and he finds he can't complain. "And I have your one extra blanket."

 _Lie_. He knows and she knows that there are more of his blankets in the linen closet, but he doesn't correct her.

"It would be a shame if you freeze to death, all cause I hogged your blankets."

He laughs, albeit a nervous one. "Indeed."

"Come to bed?" She holds out her hand.

He doesn't even hesitate. He takes it.

They get ready for bed, brushing their teeth side by side and changing into their sleep wear and it's all so achingly domestic that he wonders how he'll ever find the strength to go back to the way things were before.

He wonders what it is she needed to know, and if that will determine where they go from here.

They fall into bed, utterly exhausted still, despite the little activity.

They're facing each other, a hand folded under their heads while he plays with the fingers on her free hands.

His eyes droop, but he fights it.

She notices and pulls away from his touch to trace the lines underneath his eye.

"You're tired," she says, voice low in concern. "Why are you fighting it… fighting sleep?"

He shakes his head. "You said just for today," and he feels like he shouldn't say whatever it is he's about to say but there's something about the night that makes him feel fragile and vulnerable so he confesses, "I want more days like this." He sighs. "But you said it… _just_ for today. If I sleep then it'll end and I fear that I never want it to."

She says nothing and he doesn't expect her to. But she _does_ move closer to him, tangles their legs and has him put his arms around her so that she's completely wrapped up in him.

"You're warm, always so warm," she hums, "will you be my blanket instead?"

He laughs. "Don't let go, then."

He means it to come out jestingly but his tone is too low, too sincere to be interpreted as anything _but_ sincere.

And he's dreaming, he has to be, because the way Emma runs her hand down his back feels too tender to be real and if it is, then he doesn't ever want to wake up, – feels his eyes slipping shut, even when he tries so hard to fight it.

"I don't want this to end."

But he loses the battle, exhaustion takes over and he falls into slumber, which is why he misses the way Emma whispers brokenly,

"Maybe it doesn't have to."

* * *

 **AN: It's official. I don't know where the _hell_ this story is going, it has _completely_ run away from me but, I am just letting Killian and Emma write themselves.**


End file.
